


The Revenge of Mrs. Potts

by thinlizzy2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To think, Dean once thought the Leviathans were bad. It turns out they’ve got NOTHING on dessert forks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revenge of Mrs. Potts

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the spn_summergen exchange.

Dean Winchester swallowed hard and waited. He still had bad feelings about coming here in the first place. Of all the monsters he had encountered in a life that had largely consisted of encountering various creepy-crawly horrors, these were the most bizarre and ruthless. And their demands! They went against Dean’s deepest-seated principles and beliefs! Still, there was nothing he could do. The Tsukumogami had Sam. 

The door swung open, and the vicious little bastards brought Sam in. Urgently, Dean raked his eyes over his captive brother. Had he been tortured; had the beasts hurt him? Luckily, Sam appeared essentially unharmed, but Dean was still worried. 

“Are you all right?” He tried to rush to Sam’s side, but the soup ladle - in Dean’s opinion one of the nastiest of the bunch - blocked his path. 

“Not so fast! You know the rules. You get any closer and he’s totally forked.” The barbecue fork turned so that his sharpened prongs caught the light, and Dean knew that he meant what he said. He’d never forget the joy that little sadist had taken in pronging Kevin. The poor kid had needed stitches!

He could do this, Dean reminded himself. He had survived Hell; he had survived Purgatory. He had survived Becky! He’d get through this somehow.

“I’m fine, Dean.” Sam was clearly trying to reassure him, but Dean caught the hitch in his brother’s voice. Dean remembered Sam’s theory that the barbecue utensil had taken lessons from Lucifer’s pitchfork. He stared at his brother’s wrists, bound with chains of linked spoons, and fought his growing rage. One way or another, he was going to pay these fuckers back. He’d see them as rusting toys in some kindergarten sandbox if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Maybe we should sit down,” a teapot suggested. She was a delicate bit of pottery, finely glazed with tiny blue and pink flowers. Dean might have actually thought she was pretty if she hadn’t been a part of this. 

He took a seat across the table from the dishes. He rubbed at his tired eyes; he hadn’t slept properly since he got the news that Sam had been captured. Wearily, he reached for the coffee maker.

“Oi!” The crock-pot barked at him. “That’s my wife, buddy!”

He dropped his hand. “Sorry.” He spoke to the coffee maker in a stage-whisper. “I think you can do better.” The crock-pot sent a short blast of steam in his direction, but a gentle sloshing from the coffee maker made Dean wonder if she didn’t agree with him. 

“Let’s get started,” the teapot began. “Dean, you know what we want, and it’s within your power to provide. We don’t think it’s unreasonable; in fact, we feel that we’re only asking for what’s owed to us. And considering the fact that we have your brother... well... I’d say you’re out of cards to play.” 

“I just want to know why you guys are doing this in the first place!” Despite his determination not to show weakness, some of the pain and betrayal he was feeling leaked into his voice. “I really don’t get it. Haven’t we always had good times together?” They had; it was why he felt so betrayed now. “I mean, think of all the steaks, the foamy beers, the pie.” He couldn’t go on. 

A shot glass trembled a bit and Dean thought he might have been getting through to him, but a stern glance from a saucer put a stop to that.

“And what did we get in exchange for that?” The kettle was clearly furious. “Cast aside, left crusted in filth and bacteria. For all the pleasure we’ve given you, and you just went and-” He whistled in anger and turned to teapot. “Let me scald him, Ma’am! Just this once. He’s got it coming, and it would feel so damn good!” 

The teapot shook her spout. “Not yet. We’ve all agreed to give him one more chance and we’re only as good as our word.” She paused for a moment to think. “If he doesn’t come around, well then I’d say you can do as you like.”

A butter knife piped up. “What really gets to me is all the times when we were sitting there, and it would have taken so little effort. But he couldn’t be bothered, could he?” She turned away from Dean. “No. He just used... plastic.”

Dean stared at her. “Well, what’s the difference?”

All the utensils seemed to clatter at once; the banging was deafening. “What’s the difference?” The soup ladle roared. “What’s the difference?”

“Enough!” The teapot banged against the table. “Dean Winchester, you are clearly a hateful and ignorant human being. I think it’s safe to say that we’re finished with you, no matter what you decide today. But regardless, you owe us justice. We have the equipment, and we’ll return your brother unharmed if our demands are met. Otherwise? You can’t say you haven’t been warned. It’s your decision now.”

Dean dropped his head. Could he do it? He’d avoided this particular act for decades; it actively reviled him. He’d walk through fire for Sam; he’d damn his own soul to Hell without thinking twice. But this? He had no idea if he would even be able to look at himself in the same way afterwards.

“For fuck’s sake, Dean!” Sam snarled at his brother. “Just wash the damn dishes!”

***

 

This was disgusting. 

Dean’s hands looked like old raisins and were slimy to boot. There were bits of gunk embedded in his nails, which were slowly turning a disgusting shade of brown. He had tried the rubber gloves, but their clammy texture had made him shudder. The front of his shirt was all covered with water and suds and more of the horrible mixture was dripping onto the floor. The air was acrid with the stench of artificial lemons, and Dean had to constantly fight the urge to retch. 

His hands were too slippery to hold the phone, so when it rang he just jabbed at the speakerphone button with one soapy finger. Castiel’s voice filled the room.

“Dean, I am sorry to bother you.”

Dean groaned and buried his face in his hands. That got him a faceful of dish slop and he groaned again. “Cas, honestly. I have all the honey I need. We’ve been eating pancakes for months now.”

“That’s not it. Your old gym socks have recently arrived here, and they are quite determined to see you. They... they have Meg, Dean, and I can’t seem to reason with them. They’re insisting on seeing you in person and I would appreciate your help very much.” 

“We’ve got bigger problems than that, Cas.” There was panic in Sam’s voice, and Dean jerked his head up to see the cause of it. Terror made his chest clench.

Trailing a line of filth, a toilet was glowering at him from the doorway. It clomped towards him, brandishing a bottle of corrosive cleaner and a menacing, spiky-looking brush. “Scrub me!” It demanded fiercely. “Scrub me or suffer the consequences!”

Dean shut his eyes and prayed that death would be swift.


End file.
